Showdown
by The Oddity
Summary: In this shocking tale, two cyborg operatives turn against one of their sisters in arms in a fight to the finish. Hardcore fans of Nachtsider are encouraged not to read. Please R&R!


Dedicated to none other than Nachtsider himself, who is...hell, I don't know where he is.

Also, please no flames for this fanfiction publication. It was written and conceived in a manner that is intended to make you laugh your ass off, not out of spite for anybody or any living things, so help me God.

Mucho apologies to Nachtsider for purposefully using Liesel without his permission, but...why does it matter anyway? She's just an original character. But if you really need someone to condemn, condemn V-san. She put me up to this. (And yeah, I know it's all about respecting personal copyright, etc, etc, but none of us even own the series we write for. And I **do** have a disclaimer...)

Alessa is property of V. Gainsborough; Clarice is property of myself; Liesel belongs to aforementioned man who is over the rainbow in Oz.

Remember, potential scathing reviewers: Fandom? Is not serious business. Fanfiction? Isn't either.

666

This tale, penned by me, the Oddity, is based on the excellent anime/_manga_ known as 'Gunslinger Girl', which is the brainchild of Yu Aida. This story utilizes the previous yarn (or is it really a string?) authored by Nachtsider himself, 'A Day in the Life of a Gunslinger Girl'. From this, I have stolen his title character without his express permission and pitted her against two additional original operatives in a fight to the finish. **Bearing in mind that all original concepts, characters, their distinctive likenesses and related elements featured in this publication are the property of their rightful owners and may not be used without the authors' express permission, that being something I have not attained in accordance with the penning of this tale**, enjoy the story, and please do not drop me a line at the relevant electronic mail address that I am not going to display due to privacy reasons.

**SHOWDOWN**

It was quarter to midday in the spacious confines of my personal and quite tasteful abode that had been specially rewarded to I, Liesel. I was completing one of my puzzles at my cherry wood desk, the remnants of my brunch still sitting on the dinner table, when a knock rebounded off my tasteful door. Unmoved, I rise from my seat and pace over to the barrier, unbolting and opening it a tad to see who was there. The stoic, ivory face of Clarice greeted my verdigris view, wearing her typical garish and (in my opinion) tasteless modern clothes that could never exude the same _chic_ as my daily wardrobe.

"Hello," I greet, narrowing my exquisite orbs and lifting a brow questioningly (though I may add, I lifted this eyebrow in complete excellence, for Altheus and I tend to spend whole days practicing together in my tasteful den) at the yawn-inducing nymph.

"May we come in?" comes her unnaturally girlish voice. It disturbs me somehow. And I, Liesel, find being disturbed to be far too much of a disturbance for my liking, so this emotion she induced within was not entirely up-to-par.

...Wait. 'We'? Is there someone else accompanying her? Who would bother me, in my tasteful apartment complex, with an agenda other than to grovel for succulent treats from my plethora of expired victuals (note to Liesel-self: inquire Altheus over topic of going to the grocery store)...? I open the door a hair more and my emerald gemstones maximize in shock. Standing beside the inelegant thirteen year old is a girl dressed so elegantly, I cannot believe how I may have passed over her. Of course, being I, Liesel, who never lays eyes upon another creature whom I cannot label equal in bestness (is that a word? I must consult my hands-on dictionary), I couldn't have a say in whom I have seen and whom I have not.

Her hair falls just so past her black-clad, petite shoulders in light blondish-brown twirls. Her skin is of a creamy pigment; quite unlike my own. Her eyes are such a bright hue of brown that it slightly compliments her tresses without overdoing it. In my mind, she is a porcelain doll, flawless and discreet; or perhaps the Japanese _gosurori_ who occupy the Harajuku fashion district. Her raven Mary Janes clack shyly against my slate doorstep, but her expression is virtually nonexistent. It is unnerving in a way.

Finally, sense overcomes me and I open my door, stepping aside to allow my guests. Clarice leads the unknown agent inside with her. They are both carrying, to my intrigue, tasteful Amati violin cases like the one I possess which is currently sitting against my wall, empty. I rush over to the foreign child and offer to relieve her of her case, my cheeks strangely burning. She denies me, much to my dislike, and seats herself at my table, clutching the handle of her luggage resolutely. Clarice does the same. Miserly, I slide back into my chair and gaze downwards at my unfinished meal in disgust.

"What did you want?" I inquire, frowning like a child who received a time out.

"This is Alessa," the shameless blonde introduces, gesturing to her company.

I feel my cheeks burn again. Annoyed, I retort without meaning to do so. "Do I care?"

Alessa shifts in the chair and watches me. On both sides of her head are portions of hair lifted up somewhat from the rest of her curly bunch with black lace (lace trimmed with ivory frills — such immeasurable refinement!). My stomach does a belly flop and lands facedown. Ouch.

"I-I mean, my name is Liesel," I rectify, smiling cordially and extending my hand. Alessa, very slowly, raises her right hand and accepts my handshake mutely. Clarice beams and nudges the blondish-brown.

"I am Alessa, Raniero's _loving_ sister," she intones, glaring darkly at me. The sudden change in her demeanor is so startling, I nearly slip off my seat. To make matters worse, Alessa finds it good fun to attempt and crush my artificial hand. It does not factor how cyborgs such as myself can't feel pain — it is a burden to my senses. I try fruitlessly to struggle out of her tightening grasp, but I cannot.

Needing some sort of topic of discussion (thank you, Altheus, for teaching me the uses of the human oratory system, it is a delight), I manage, "W-what's...Raniero...l-l-like?"

Instantly, Alessa releases my hand. My arm jerks back instinctively to nurse my cracked bones.

"Raniero — _oh_," she sighs dramatically, "where do I begin? His adorable charm...his luscious lips...his aura! _Oh_, his _aura_, how it envelops me so! I love Raniero! _Oh_, Raniero, my darling!"

Some omnipresent being in the spacious swirling mist of unknown called the sky hates me. I know they do.

666

It is many hours proceeding the great Handshake of Death™ that I feel as if I could whip out my aesthetically pleasing ST Kinetics SAR-21 MMS and give both my visitors a 'tasteful' serving of bullet lead.

"Brother's surname is _so_ beautiful," Alessa gushes. "Capello. _Meraviglioso!_ I want to be Mrs. Capello some day. Brother says we'll get married in the future. I bet _your_ brother doesn't want to marry you, Liesel," she adds snidely. By this point, I am so fed up with her that her comments merely bounce off of me. My jade green eyes wander over to Clarice, who is sitting with a permanent smile plastered on her face like a Barbara doll.

Then, suddenly, she leaps up, and asks, "May I go to the restroom, Liesel?"

"Yes, you may," I grumble bitterly. I do not want that distasteful scum messing in my spotless bathroom, but for the sake of friendliness... I must allow it. Clarice traipses to the door and slams it shut, causing the ornately carved wall mirror on the far wall to fall off and burst into flying shrapnel. Luckily, it does not soar long, and I can safely purvey the destruction of my much-loved possession at a distance.  
_  
Rage._

"Okay, that's it—" I begin, rising from my chair, when I am silenced rather thoroughly by something: Alessa's violin case is open.

Gulping and playing 'cool', I look up. I find myself at gunpoint by a tasteful Sterling L2A3 SMG wielded by none other than Alessa. I swear in barely a whisper as she flicks the safety off. My heart drums repeatedly in my ears. And then I realize that I, Liesel, am actually experiencing an emotion that I'd only read in fairytales and from Altheus's unintelligible slurs right before he passes out from drunkenness — fear.

In a mere blink, I pull my Glock 18 on Alessa's glassy left eye. She raises her eyebrows apprehensively for a second, and says, "Nice gun."

"Likewise," I retort acrimoniously, swinging my head back to toss some ebony fringe out of my face.

I am fueled no longer by my anger. I am cool, calm, and collected, the way Altheus taught me. The way he showed me. I am one with my inner self. Be the gun. Feel the gun.

...However, rather like those pesky Baudelaire orphans, adversity likes to metaphorically smack me in the face with its tail. Alessa dodges to my left and fires three shots — each expertly and strategically aimed for my shoulder, torso, and leg. I feel the first bullet shear my flesh and the slight tinge of pain running afterwards. Conditioning is a godsend.

I dodge the two shots and kick my circular dining table in front of me as a shield. Blood flows freely from my wound, dappling my tasteful duster and causing me to resemble a spotted pony.

...Wait. A pony?

_Okay, time to get serious,_ I muse, eyes scanning the area around me for something I can use to mute the crimson liquid. I fixate upon a dainty napkin I had been wiping my mouth with during my meal and grab it, shaking a few loose breadcrumbs off and tying it around my shoulder.

I peer over my cover and see Alessa kneeling on my floor. I fall sideways with as much grace as a waterlogged preschooler to evade her round, which leaves a tasteful halfpipe-like mark before it shatters the window nearby. Swearing audibly as dangerous shrapnel showers upon me, I kick the table towards her and successfully bolt to the door leading into the upstairs.

666

Our game of cat-and-mouse extends well into the evening. I am lucky that I had the forethought to conceal spare clips in vital sections of my house, as Alessa enjoys vanishing like quicksilver in a split second, and cropping up at random to throw a bullet or two my way. I only have two wounds at this point, however. One of the Agency's best and brightest through and through. I smile, relishing in my thoughts. While not fully understanding why an operative spontaneously decided to turn against one of their sisters-in-arms, I, Liesel, am still capable of holding my own in a fight. I believe it is the combined forces of my flexibility to excel at multiple endeavors, my supervisor Altheus's good training, and frog spawn. But especially the first two.

Below me, I hear the flushing of a toilet. My heart almost stops. Clarice has finished using my facilities; what will she do? Join me against Alessa, or... Join Alessa against I, Liesel? I take a moment to pause in my battle with Alessa on the upper floor and surf my pocket thesaurus for sufficient words to describe that question.

"Ah, yes," I, Liesel, breathe. "It is the utmost imperative inquiry that must be responded to in a swift manner of address. _Perfetto_." I close and stow my pocket book inside my duster, which has gone from elegant gray to distasteful rubicund in the progress of my duel (note to Liesel-self: inquire ugly girl about replacing duster).

I jerk out of my reverie when it sounds like the Nazis are racing up my staircase. Startled, I peer over the protection of the fallen dresser. I watch as somebody, or some _thing_, fires what seems like a full magazine of ammunition through the door and kicks it down off its hinges. Behind me, the voice of Alessa interjects: "Oh, hey, Clarice."

The blonde is red-faced and unguarded, but for some reason, looks very pissed off at me. I am reminded of a quote from one of the books Altheus lent to me a while ago:

"_Now I'm going to eat my lasagna. If it gets cold, you have to eat the lasagna." George W. Bush, March 15, 2002._

Intriguing...

Clarice turns her Heckler & Koch 53 carbine on me. I stare down the barrel, knowing that death is only a mere trigger-pull away. Once, have I been in this 'close shave' sort of situation — it was on a mission, where I had to kill some guy. Clearly, my eloquence starts to fade when I am at Death's door. I wonder if Mrs. Death is making blueberry muffins. I sure do like them.

Instinctively, I bolt for the staircase, tripping and skidding down the flight of steps as shots are fired at me, puncturing the ceiling in an askew manner. I reach the bottom and hop to my feet as Clarice and Alessa come around the corner and shoot at me. Firing two rounds back at them as I shield my eyes, I run back into my bedroom, looking for something I can use to hinder my attackers. My ST Kinetics SAR-21 MMS is locked tightly within my violin case. I would hate to take a more offensive, serious action against my sisters-in-arms, however.

I decide to hold off and make for my kitchen table cover. Clarice and Alessa burst through the staircase threshold, the blonde darting for my shattered mirror.Wielding a cuspidate piece of edged glass, she turns and throws it straight at me, hitting right into my forehead and sending me plummeting back by a little. The plating around my brain is useful, however, and the most that comes from having a chunk of glass sticking out of my head is blood seeping around my eyes and nose.

There is a hearty, awkward pause in the room. I imagine me with a piece of shrapnel in my head is unintentionally humorous, but nobody is laughing.

Clarice approaches me with her carbine pointed at my eyes. "Sorry," she apologizes, listless and dull. "I'd offer you a last request, but you might use it to get away."

"Wait..." I plead. "Why are you doing this?"

She ignores my query and pulls the trigger.

I dodge.

**THE END**


End file.
